Still there was no answer.
Rutledge began to doubt that Rebecca Parkinson was in the house after all. She could easily have gone out through the kitchen yard and walked away.
“Whether you like it or not, you will be faced with other issues. Who will pay the housekeeper’s wages if your father is dead and his estate is left unsettled? Who will pay for repairing the drains and rooting out worm in the wood, and seeing to the roof? Are you prepared to stand and watch the house fall down for lack of money? Whether you want to touch your inheritance or not, you will find it will make a difference in what becomes of you and your sister, and the house at Partridge Fields.”
He had hoped that that would be a telling argument in persuading her to identify the body. But the silence lengthened.
“At least give me the name of your father’s solicitor, Miss Parkinson. I shall have to contact him. Meanwhile, you’re letting your anger blind you. I think your mother would want to know that you and your sister were provided for.”
But the bait was ignored.
No response, no angry outburst, no confrontation in the failing light, where he could try to read Rebecca Parkinson’s face and define her reactions.
He’d learned long ago that when people could be persuaded to talk, even about something as simple as the weather, he had a better chance of building a bridge to the truth. Silence worked in favor of the suspect—if there was no conversation, there would be nothing to stumble over later.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, ye said fra’ the start, this sister couldna be persuaded to work wi’ the police.”
Please God, Sarah would be a different sort. Certainly she was the more emotional of the two women. And probably the less stubborn.
In the end he left, driving back to Berkshire in the waning light of a spring evening.
It was just dark when he reached The Smith’s Arms. Tired and dispirited, he had listened to Hamish for miles, and he wished only for peace.
As he walked into the inn, he stopped short.
Sitting quietly in the chair by the window, where sometimes he had eaten his breakfast, was Meredith Channing.
The surprise was so complete that he simply stood there, unable to imagine what had brought her here, how she had found him. Even Hamish hadn’t warned him. And then he remembered that she was a friend of Frances’s, and he asked quickly, “Is anything wrong?”
She rose to greet him, something in her face that frightened him. But then she said, “I thought it best to come and tell you about Simon Barrington. For your sister’s sake.”
“How did you find me?”
“I asked a friend to call the Yard. Sergeant Gibson was kind enough to give me your direction.” She looked around, listening to the sounds of laughter and someone’s harmonica making rowdy music in the bar. “Is there anywhere that we can be private?”
“The night is mild enough. We can walk, if you’d like.”
She preceded him through the doorway, and said, “I passed the White Horse as I was coming in. It’s amazing. One of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. There’s something about it that is—I don’t know—rather fearsome. And yet not at all frightening.”
“I’ve always admired it.”
They turned in the direction of Wayland’s Smithy. He said, “I saw Simon when I was in Lincoln. With another woman. I didn’t know who she was.”
“Yes, well, she’s his sister, and she’s been having an appalling time. He goes north every weekend, even midweek if it’s necessary. He hasn’t told anyone but his closest friends, people who know her too. Her husband’s dead, you see, and she’s ill, rather a dreadful illness I’m afraid, and he takes her to the doctor in Lincoln for treatments. I expect he doesn’t know how long she may have to live, and if she does, how long she will need to convalesce.”
“Why tell me this? Why not speak to Frances directly?”
“If I tell her, I’m betraying a confidence from a friend. But Frances came to me for answers, and I know how wretched she is. I’m hoping you’ll find a way to assure her that it isn’t personal.”
“I’ll do my best.” He hesitated. “Is she in love with Simon, do you think? Or is this a passing fancy? I’ve been busy, and there hasn’t been time to find out.”
“I think she’s lonely, and sometimes that palls. Simon is single, attractive, and of her own social set. If she isn’t in love with him, she may believe she ought to be. And that could go a long way toward explaining her unhappiness.”
He hadn’t considered that possibility. It put matters in a different light.
They had reached the Smithy and stood beside it, gazing at it but not really seeing it. He thought that Frances was not the only problem that Mrs. Channing had brought with her.
After a moment she said, “I shouldn’t have come. This could have waited.”
“I’m glad you did.”
In the darkness her face was a pale blur framed by her hair. “Ian. I only just heard about Jean Montroy’s death.”
He took a deep breath. “It was a surprise.” Inadequate, but that was all he could manage.
“Yes, it must have been. I’m sorry.”
Rutledge turned away, listening to the roar of Hamish’s voice in his ears, and not understanding any of what he was saying.
“What did the poet say? That the saddest words of tongue or pen were what might have been? It’s true. If we’d been married in the summer of last year, the child might have been mine. But it wasn’t, and if she was happy, I’m glad. Her happiness was brief enough.” He walked a short distance, then came back. “Who told you?”
“It was in the Canadian newspapers, of course, and a friend sent me the cutting. I wondered if you would like to have it.”
He considered that, and in the end, said, “Thank you. No. At least not at present.”
“Of course.” She put her hand on one of the stones that formed the Smithy and said, apropos of nothing, “Whoever was buried here must have been famous in his day. I wonder what his life was like, and his death.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way to know. Although the local smith will tell you that there’s still treasure to be found inside.”
“Perhaps he’s right. Well, it’s late, and I must be on my way. I’m staying with friends a few miles from here, and they’ll be wondering what’s become of me.”
They walked back to the inn in a comfortable silence, and he found it soothing. “Where is your motorcar? I didn’t see it when I came in.”
“I left it in the kitchen yard. Mrs. Smith thought it best.” He could hear the amusement in her voice. “I don’t think she quite agrees with women driving.”
He turned the crank for her and said, as she pulled on her driving gloves, “Thank you for coming.”
“I wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do. Good night, Ian.” And with that she drove out of the inn yard and went on her way.
He watched the rear light disappearing down the road before turning back to the main door and going inside.
Rutledge didn’t sleep well. He was awakened by the sound of guns firing in the distance—artillery, German, he could tell—and realized after the first startled instant that they were in his head. He’d been dreaming about the Front, and it had stayed with him even though he had awakened from it. The inn was quiet around him, and he lay there listening to the night.
In the darkness he heard Hamish saying, “Why did a friend send yon widow a cutting aboot your Jean?”